


An Empty Room

by commandmetobewell



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Blood and Injury, Chemotherapy, Crossing Timelines, Dark Past, Death, Divorce, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Limbs, Lung Cancer, Major Character Injury, Sad Ending, honestly this is more of a self-help thing for me, i apologize in advance for the feels, idk if that's a spoiler but i just wanted to give a heads up, if you're looking to get mad fucked up on angst welcome to the shitshow, it's gonna be rough but give it a shot if you really hate yourself idk, it's not got a happy ending and it's not a happy story, lexa dies at the end in case that's a trigger, there are some happy bits because it jumps around but it's generally fucking sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-07-26 15:49:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7580422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commandmetobewell/pseuds/commandmetobewell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Compared to everything else you've been through so far, a divorce seems it could be a walk in the park. Nothing could possibly get worse from here on out, right?" Anya tries to crack a joke, but it falls short when she notices your silence. </p><p>"It can't get worse, right?" Anya repeats in trepidation, her voice shakier this time.</p><p>"Apparently it can," you whisper as you look to your drink with an blank stare. Anya purses her lips and gulps. </p><p>"Lexa?" She rasps your name as you look up to stare at her sadly. "What's wrong?" </p><p>It's only when her voice cracks on the question that you find the energy to choke out your response.</p><p>"I have cancer."</p><p>or</p><p>The one in which Clarke falls out of love and Lexa falls terminally ill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you can't imagine [death], think clumsy silence. Think bits and pieces of floating despair. And drowning in a train.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just really still sad about my grandmother passing away and haven't found any motivation to write and so I crafted this up. A lot of it is going to be based on real-life experiences that I had in the last month and a half when I had been in the last moments with my grandmother. So maybe this story might not be for you if you're not interested in heavy, and I mean really heavy, angst. It's going to be completely different than my other works, so give it a shot if you want to, but be warned, it will be by far the saddest of all of them.
> 
> The ending does feature Lexa dying, as it is posted in the tags, but I think I'm aiming for a bittersweet, closure ending (something I didn't get with my own grandmother), but it'll be more sad than sweet. If that's something that triggers you, or the mentions of cancer/cancer treatment and its effects, this story isn't for you, friend.
> 
> This will have plot, but it's not going to have the ridiculous length of my other stories when it comes to chapters. I'm expecting this to be under 50k words in total, and if not, then a few 10k over, give or take. Not all of it will be sad, but it's a generally sad story because of the nature of the fic and how I'm writing it. I just really needed to find a coping mechanism for my own grief, and I think that this is it.
> 
> The chapter summary quote is from Markus Zusak's book, "The Book Thief".

They say that before you die, your life flashes before your eyes one last time.

A final reminder, a memoir, a compilation of your entirety, of what you made and who you became in those years of life you were granted.

You only wish it would be that way.

Ten years ago, if someone had asked you just what would have been in that film reel, you probably would have answered with two kids, a house with a picket fence, and a wife. Maybe some nice neighbours that would have kids that would be best friends with your own offspring. Of course, there would be an adorable giant dog that probably barked too much and a cat you hated but secretly loved; maybe you'd even own a minivan or a truck that's filled with your family's belongings and smells like the inside of a soccer cleat most of the time.

But most of all, you imagine having so much time for you and your wife, your _family_ , to finally live out your lives in peace. Perhaps it would be long holidays spent embarrassing your kids with too much PDA, or even the joys of sending them off to college or watching them save lives like you have been doing for the past eighteen years of your life. You'd fall asleep next to her every night, your wife, your sun, moon, stars, your everything holy and nothing tainted, your _everything_ , and realize that you're one of the lucky ones.

(But you're not lucky, not even in the slightest bit. Not here, not now.)

Life is a mysterious thing, and it's something that you've come to mildly appreciate in the last few weeks. You've seen the upside to being sick, the beauty in the world and how it works. You've watched your sister get married and fall in love, and now they've got a child on the way. You'd always wanted children, and you think that perhaps in another life you would have gotten them. Maybe they would have been born of you, maybe of her, or even you could have adopted. You regret that you hadn't been blessed with enough time to figure that part out just yet. Instead, you wasted away like a decaying fruit, moulding and crumpling in on yourself.

The sad reality of _your_ life is that it was always a revolution around the constant motto of _things change_ , of understanding impermanence and the word _temporary_. You aren't lucky enough to have that blockbuster hit because for you, life got in the way of that film reel produced for death. You didn't get the epic montage showing the amazing years of family, love, and friendship. It turned out that most things were left unsaid, best laid plans turned down in lieu of a shoddy makeshift backup scheme, and in the fire and flames of passion, anger, regret and even _love_ , the spark that caused it all to ignite died, too.

When you were younger, you had such big, bold dreams of becoming a environmental lawyer, to help save the beautiful planet in which you reside. You fondly remember lining up the stuffed animals Anya's foster mum, Indra, had bought for you when you'd first moved in. How you would pace back and forth between them and dictate a case that you'd made up, making Anya your judge and Clarke, alongside a ever-troublesome Raven, your witnesses. Bellamy would play the opposition and try to defeat your cases, but you would always reign supreme with your vast vocabulary and intense study of the subject.

Perhaps, if things hadn't changed, your career would have been that of which you'd dreamed.

Perhaps, you'd have those two kids, the white picket fence, two pets, the soccer mom vehicle, the PDA, the _happiness_.

(Perhaps, you'd be _living_ instead of dying.)

It's an unexplainable feeling, really, being on the brink of death. You're unconscious, but still semi-aware at the same time. You're almost certain that Gustus would argue something philosophical about the arbitrary quality of feeling and experiencing those last moments. You hear it all the time, that those who've died experienced a 'walk towards the light' kind of sensation, that they could potentially find themselves meeting Jesus or being reincarnated. You remember the many days you'd argue against him, that the feeling of death is illogical because there is no evidence considering no one can come back from that inevitable traverse into the unknown. But he would challenge you to question reality, to question humanity, to question and question until you realize, there is no answer.

And maybe, there never will be any answers.

There are so many things that you find yourself asking as you feel your strength waning. Will you turn into an animal next? Perhaps another human? Maybe you'll go to Heaven or Hell, or maybe you'll just exist in a state of darkness for eternity, never to feel or see or touch ever again. You wish that you could talk to Gustus, to ask him, to find him in whatever realm he may now reside, if this is what he had felt before he had died. You wonder if he will be the one to come for you, to hold out his hand as he'd done when he'd first found you at that orphanage, with his gentle smile and kind eyes. You want to know what comes next.

At this point, you don't know what to expect.

If it weren't so morbid, you'd be excited at the prospect of this new adventure. You always were the more exploratory type, always on the lookout for new expeditions and adventures. It was something that caused Clarke to fall in love with you, or at least that's what you think. You'd always been friends, but she always gave you that confidence you'd lacked since being adopted, the will to find new things and to just see the world (or as most of it as you can). You travelled to every continent but two, visited three Great Wonders of the World, and climbed Kilimanjaro. You've lived your life to the fullest, you'd say.

You grew up fearing a lonesome death. You used to think the concept of death was something scarier than the monsters under your bed, or the darkness spilling from under the door, or the clowns at the fairs that would terrify you endlessly. You remember the times you would find yourself dwindling on the prospect of a one-way trip into the unknown, and inevitably it would lead to thinking about your family's death, specifically Indra, Gustus, and Anya's ends. As a child that finally became accustomed to the feeling of being loved and wanted again, the fear was stronger, blunter, and mortifying.

You would roll your blankets up and grab your pillows, take your scrawny and shivering mess of a eight year old body to your foster parents' doorways and camp outside so you could hear their breathing through the wooden barriers. You would fall asleep to their even snoring, comforted that their hearts were still beating and you were no longer left alone, like you'd been when your mother and father took you to that park, played with you on that broken swing; and then before you could even turn around to laugh about how fun it was, they'd disappeared on you.

You were six years old, and already you were unwanted.

As you grew older, you became accustomed to people leaving you. Your parents, Tris, Costia, Gustus,  _Clarke_ …

It's ironic, you think, that you're the one leaving now.

(You still can't seem to grasp the idea that you're dying, because you don't want to leave, not yet.)

It's funny to you, and if you had the strength to chuckle, you would, because you're negotiating now. You're confabulating some sort of justification as if to say that because you've done quite a lot, the person or entity or _whatever_ controls this cycle of life and death doesn't have to feel guilty for your early departure of this planet. You're convincing yourself, somehow half-alive, that you are alright to pass on because _it's okay;_  you've done what you could. You _were_ happy.

You were. Long ago, you were once so incredibly happy.

Now, though? Now, you're not so sure. 

Especially not now, when you're on the edge, hovering from each struggled breath to the next, waiting for the start of your long-awaited movie, to finally be able to see just how much you'd made of the forty-one years of life you'd been involuntarily given. You wait in sheer agony, your lungs slicing and aching with each inhale. Soft, gentle hands caress your face, a medley of voices plead for you to open your eyes, to wake up, but you are far away. They call out for you desperately, to just hold onto the fraying edge that tethers you to this planet. They want you to fight a fight that you know ended months ago, back when you had fallen into this grey area. They want so much from you, but you have nothing left. You want to answer, you do, but you are also cold and worn and _tired_.

The only thing that keeps you alive as that clichéd film begins to play is the voice in your head screaming out a single, repeated mantra.

 _Clarke is coming._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't checked my tumblr in a really long time, mostly because I'm busy at work and haven't had the time to do so, but leave a message there if you have any questions or comments @ a-class-act-president. I will try to get on there this weekend to reply to the many messages I've received in the past few weeks in my absence!
> 
> Thank you for reading if you gave this a shot, and the next part is already finished and will be up tomorrow.
> 
> Much love, xx.


	2. Fire Starter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Strange, how death had a way of turning a table upside down in an instant. It swept away all the dust that covered treasures, blew the fog from one’s view, knocked away facades.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timeline does jump around from time to time, and this story isn't exactly linear, per say. I hope that this stream of consciousness-like style of writing makes sense to those who feel like reading, lol. For those wondering, Clexa is not a thing of the past. The divorce isn't a finalized thing. Clexa are still endgame they're just not a happy endgame, exactly. I don't really know how to explain it. Clarke comes back, that's all I'll say.
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading if you stuck in with me. I'll have more soon.
> 
> The chapter summary quote is from Julianne MacLean's book, "Love According to Lily".

**07/17/2008**

**19:35:19**

 

“Stare at it any longer and I swear you'll burn through the metal.”

You nod your head up from where you're sitting on your cot to see your older sister and co-captain staring back at you with a smug expression.

“I've been planning it for weeks, Anya. I want it to be perfect.” You fumble with the ring a few times, your nerves getting the best of you as she looks up again. She shrugs and leans on the doorframe, grinning at how your faltering glare softens into an embarrassed flush of your face.

“Just be the nerdy, goofy, awkward self you are and present it to her as sappily as I know you will,” Anya jokes back as she steps inside the small space to ruffle your hair playfully, being mindful of your privacy. As much as you hold some power over the other fire fighters, you still have a code of ethics to uphold. You groan and shove her away with a smirk in your gaze. You look back at the ring and sigh deeply before your lips tighten in a serious line.

It's pointless to ask, but you do anyways.

“Will she even say yes?”

Your voice is small, insecure, afraid.

(You're plagued by the countless times you've heard the word no, in which staying was only temporary and love was a fleeting thing.)

“She's your best friend,” Anya murmurs gently, the playfulness replaced for something a bit more sturdy. “She loves you. She's always loved you, Lex.”

"She could stop loving me," you say as you eye the ring more carefully. "Then what?"

Before Anya manages to get a response in, the alarm goes off and the chief's voice sounds over the PA system.

_"10-77 near Arthur and 185th, calling in a risk of a 10-80. All units are advised to proceed with caution."_

"We'll have to worry about this later," you tell your sister as you put the ring in one of your pockets, not thinking about logic. Anya nods and the two of you work your way over towards the pole and chute, after having made a pitstop at the change rooms to grab your gear. Anya is the first to hop into the _Thunderbird_ (as she'd fondly named the truck), quickly starting it up as you and the rest of your crew make it on board and suit up with your oxygen masks and helmets.

The fire is huge, already having taken over six floors on the right hand side of the building. It's corporate, but old. The structure is weak and you know that you're stupid for rushing in head first, but you are the chief's elite team for a reason. Your men manage to clear out the first few floors with ease, luckily given that the building is mostly smoke and ash now. You weave your way through the floors, going up and down the stairs with Anya on your trail as you go around shouting for any remaining victims to the blaze. A few people manage to stumble your way, and you send them down to your sister, who accepts them reluctantly. As much as your ties keep you close, your duty is to your people, to serve and protect them above all else.

"I'll scale the rest," you say, unbeknownst to you it's the worst mistake you'll make, "go with these few. Get them some oxygen and medical attention."

Anya grunts and swiftly leaves you, radioing into Lincoln and Bellamy down below that you're still up there and in need of assistance. You ignore how she sounds irritated at your selflessness (and a bit scared, you'll admit, by the quiver in her voice and the crack of her strength in speaking your name). You manage to make it to the top, but your visibility is next to nothing. It's a lab of some sort, the heavy-looking and well-fortified door now cracked ajar from force.

Something doesn't feel right.

"This is Captain Woods from the NYFD," you yell into the thick smoke, "the building has been compromised. Are there any survivors here?"

You know that there's someone in here, you feel it in your gut and your gut never lies about anything. Even though the floors creak and the glass screeches with the sheer heat of the flames, you push forwards into the lab, holding your arm out in front of you as you feel the building begin to sway. Bellamy's voice crackles on the radio, mixing with the static and the popping of metals around you from the fire, but all you make out is a garbled, "get out of there, Cap!"

Instead of responding, you wait, you listen, you stop breathing and close your eyes.

It's dangerous, risky, but it works.

"Help," comes the strangled voice from a few paces away, "please, I'm trapped! Help!"

You repeat your calling, making sure to add that the person must keep yelling in order for you to find them. They acquiesce and you breathe a little easier knowing that this game of Marco Polo isn't going to go on forever. Eventually, through the thick haze and unrelenting heat, you find a man in a lab coat cowering underneath a table, one of his legs mangled and trapped under a toppled filing cabinet. You free him quickly, passing him a spare oxygen canister you carry in case of emergencies like this, and then hoist him up over your shoulder in a fireman's carry. Just as you are about to leave, you hear a small cry.

You know you shouldn't turn. You've been taught not to turn. You've been strong for so long.

(But in this moment, with the burning memory and the smoke as a cover, you are weak.)

"Please," she cries as you swivel to face her, in all of her ashen youth and innocence green eyes, "please help me."

The doorway to the lab entrance cracks and fizzles, and more metal groans in response.

You don't have time for this.

"Please," she begs as she cries more tears, tears you know aren't real, tears you know cannot fall, not anymore. "Please, save me."

Just as you purse your lips, the floor beneath you shifts and you find yourself plummeting downwards. You quickly turn the man on your front and curl your body around him protectively, grunting painfully as your side smacks against the next solid level of ground. You wheeze thickly, noticing your air supply has drastically thinned. You fumble behind your back for the tank and with a horrified gasp, you realize that your tubes have been ruptured.

Ten minutes is what you have until your brain begins to shut down, but it all depends on when the tanks broke.

You pray it was just now.

"Please," her cries are louder now, and something about how desperate and real they sound warn you that perhaps your prayers are unanswered.

An explosion rockets in the background, pushing you backwards a few feet until you slam into a wall. At this point, your oxygen mask is doing little to save you so you decide to be reckless. If you are to reach the ground and deliver yourself and this man to safety, you need as less weight as possible. You heave the man against your shoulder once more, trying to ignore how he sags against you with his dead weight, and lift yourself upwards. You can see the fire exit a few steps ahead, but now all you have to do is get to it. You try to summon your crew, but your radio is busted, probably a result of the plummet you'd taken earlier.

And so you push yourself, your lungs working twice as hard to filter out the smoke as you weave your way through the collapsed structures and holes in the floor until you reach the stairwell. Slamming it open with your shoulder, you stumble down the flights of steps with blurred vision, your breathing becoming more laboured and heavy with each step. Everything is weighing down on you now as you trudge through the next flight of stairs until you reach the ground floor. After kicking open the fire exit door, you find yourself back in the main lobby, cursing the building for lack of escape routes.

The main door is caved in, but a few windows remain intact. Bracing yourself, you take the last of your energy and run like hell towards the last remaining window. Everything is falling around you, and if you didn't know any better, you'd be fascinated at how quickly fire can destroy things that take years to build. Your thoughts become muddled and crowded, her voice screaming louder than the hissing metal and spitting flames in your surroundings. You try to block her out, but at the last moment before you reach the window, you see that flash of brown hair, of green eyes, and cracked, bloodied lips come to stand in your path.

"Please," she whispers as blood pools from her mouth and stomach, "why can't you save me, too?"

Letting out a furious cry, you kick at the glass with your boot just as another fireball bursts from the side of the room, catching your left side. You growl and throw the man out first, grateful that below is a soft patch of grass to cushion the blow. Luckily for you, the fire team and EMTs on respond see the body fall and rush towards the entrance and where the man has landed. You go to join him when suddenly the banister breaks and collapses from above you. It's by sheer luck that you manage to roll out and duck from the giant piece of metal. Coughing, you try to find another way out, but your lungs are tired.

"Lexa," she calls to you, softer, more pained than before, "please, Lexa. You promised me."

You stumble forward a few more paces before collapsing to your knees, and then moments later, upon your side. Something falls again and you feel the blossoming pain radiate from your legs. If you weren't so muddled from smoke inhalation, you would've chuckled at the irony that you're a fire fighter about to die in a fire. It's counter-intuitive, almost. Unable to help it (and convinced these are your last moments anyways) you choke out a faint, raspy laugh.

"Lexa," her voice is stronger now, closer than before. Your head spins and you choke on the little air you have left. "You promised me."

She stands in front of you now, her hands cradling your cheeks as she stares at you.

"Lexa," she says once, and then repeats it, "Lexa. Lexa!"

" _Lexa_!"

She looks at you remorsefully, and this time you can't help the tears that burn in your eyes when you choke out, "I'm sorry."

She shakes her head and you accept the refusal. Your chest burns and you are being consumed in the fire.

You allow yourself to cry. You have only seconds left without oxygen to help your lungs battle the smoke.

Only there's a slight twist: you don't die.

(Not yet.)

 

**07/19/2008**

**10:09:00**

You wake up with a tube shoved down your throat and a blonde mop on your shoulder.

You mumble something incoherent, your brain muddled by painkillers and whatever else they've put you on to save you from the brink. Your mind and body takes sometime to adjust, and within those moments you immediately find yourself drawn to the sling and cast in which your left leg sits, elevated by the leather strap. You can't feel your other leg, not below the knee at least. Your arms are heavy and your tongue is pressed around this plastic air-filter that reminds you of those godawful fluoride bites you would have to do every dental check-up. Despite going for flavourless, you'd gag every time.

"Hmm," the blonde mop mutters in a low groan, "five more minutes."

You would chuckle if your throat didn't feel like a pizza oven.

Not even half a minute later, the blonde hair shoots upwards and wide, dazzling blue eyes stare back at you with such clarity, you don't need oxygen.

She takes your breath away.

 _Literally_.

"Holy fuck," she mutters as she looks up at your rapidly beating heart monitor, "let me get the nurse--"

You can't speak, but you can't just let this angel leave. To your credit, she does stop and listen.

"Lex?" She asks, softly and sweetly. Your name rolls off her tongue delicately and you decide her voice is the sweetest sound in the world.

"Stay," you attempt to say, even though it sounds more like a weak, nonsensical grunt because of the tube in your mouth. Your angel gets the hint and offers a flimsy smile, one that makes your heart soar. She kisses your forehead and tells you she loves you, her voice low and sweet. Her hands are soft and pliant in your own and you realize in that moment, as fatigue washes back over you as a result of the drugs coursing through your veins, you've never felt safer.

You fall asleep and the nightmares stay at bay, protected by your guardian with the sun in her hair and the sky in her eyes.

 

**07/20/2008**

**14:15:06**

 

Clarke Griffin, your angel and saviour, the woman with the sun in her hair and sky in her eyes, apparently is your girlfriend.

And while you're no longer doped up on morphine or sleeping pills or additional oxygen, you still feel like she is your saviour, your guardian, your saving grace. She blushes when you confess to her of what you'd initially thought of her presence, and she slaps your shoulder for being cheesy. As soon as she finds you joking, however, that slap turns into a hit, and you find yourself facing the most beautiful demon you've ever seen in your entire life.

"Alexandria Grace Woods," she growls out your full name as she frowns, "you scared the ever-loving shit out of me, you asshole."

You can't help but flinch and croak in your still scratchy voice, "sorry, I just--"

"You could've _died_!" Clarke sternly tells you with a sharp curl of her lips. "You could've died and I never would have gotten to say--"

"Marry me," you blurt out, unable to stop the words from tumbling from your lips. Clarke is about to finish her statement when she registers the words you've used to interrupt her seemingly long monologue about your irresponsible tendencies when it comes to running head first into danger. Her eyes widen and she adopts a blank, innocent, and surprised face.

"What did you say?" Clarke asks, dumbfounded. You want to roll your eyes, but you're too nervous.

"Marry me," you say again, coughing as the question leaves your lips. "I bought a ring."

"Lexa," Clarke warns as she looks between you and your belongings on the chair by the window suspiciously, "I thought they took you off the meds--"

"It's not the meds," you croak, letting bemusement and mild offense creep into your tone, "check the left pocket. It's next to a chocolate wrapper."

Clarke gives you a disbelieving look, but you shake your head and grin. Yeah, maybe you have a bit of the drugs still lingering in your system, but you know that you've never wanted to waste a moment of time thinking about 'what ifs' and 'maybe's than this one right here. Instead, all you want to think about is one word.

One word, that as Clarke reaches for your jeans and fishes out the ring with a teary expression and a jaw-breaking smile, you never want to let go of again.

"I had a speech," you cough out with a rasp, "I colour-coded my cue cards and highlighted my points and even bought a boom box--"

"Lexa," Clarke interrupts your nervous ramble, her stare hardening as she looks deep into your glassy eyes. You gulp in fear, anticipating rejection.

(What if she falls out of love, your mind asks.)

"Clarke," you whisper her name in trepidation, "I…"

(What if she falls _in_ love, your heart tries to reason.)

Now, you wait.

Clarke looks to the ring, then you, then back at the ring. 

As you go to hang your head and fumble out an apology, her husky voice rasps out a response.

"Yes."

Your head shoots up so fast you're sure you're about to add whiplash to your list of injuries. She smiles and reaches over to wipe away a trail of tears that you'd not known had been steadily falling since your outburst. You struggle to find words, because you're still stuck and in shock. Clarke laughs slowly, her own breathy giggle trembling with each chuckle. She nods her head and sniffles, trying and failing to blink back her own tears as she smiles at you so earnestly.

And with that, Clarke looks at you, framing your face for a kiss as she shakily repeats into your lips, " _yes,_ God yes, I will marry you. I love you, Lexa."

Everything else disappears until all you're left with is the sensation of her soft lips moving with yours.

As time goes on, and even as you both drift off to sleep, all you can hear is yes, yes, _yes_.

(Little do you know, one day that yes will become a no; and when that day comes, everything around you will crumble with it.)

 

**07/22/2008**

**09:12:07**

 

When you are finally strong enough to lift your arms and feel your legs, you realize something is missing.

More like, a _part_ of you is missing.

"They said that they couldn't save it," Anya's voice is solemn and gravelly from beside you as you both stare at the mound that was once your right shin and calf, foot and ankle. Gone, and replaced by raw stitches and a curve that ends below your knee. You don't ask what caused it. You don't want to know.

You are broken.

"What now?" You find yourself asking, unsure of the direction and whether it's meant for you or Anya. "What… what happens now?"

"Chief Kane is giving you an honourable discharge," Anya mumbles as she looks down, and you can see the guilt and anger in her eyes. "You…"

"I know," you whisper in return, tears burning at your eyes, "I can't work anymore. Not like that."

Anya doesn't speak, doesn't even respond bare for the slightest nod of her head.

You wish you had words to say, but your eyes are fixated on the ghost presence of your lost limb.

The words taste like ash in your mouth when you whisper, "Clarke said yes."

Anya freezes for a second, but then her eyes grow soft and warm, familiar.

You look up to her, offering a flimsy but sad smile as you croak, "now's the time you say 'I told you so', you know."

And that gets her to chuckle, albeit with strain and agony, and her tears of happiness soon turn into tears of sadness, but you won't follow her path.

To you, Clarke represents a restart, a new look, a way out of your desolation and clouded mind.

You will not taint Clarke with your darkness. Your hands are not that dirty… not yet.

"Clarke doesn't know, does she?" You whisper the question after sometime, feeling your throat burn from trying to force down a sob. Anya only grunts, placing her hand upon your shoulder and squeezing lightly. Her hazel eyes lighten and she gives you the most encouraging smile and nod you've ever seen from her.

"Clarke will not mind," Anya says strongly, making sure that you listen to every word she says, "Clarke loves you."

You return her smile at that, your mind drifting to the ring and the yeses and the soft kisses.

Clarke _loves_ you. A missing limb will not take away from that. You will not let it.

You love Clarke, too. Maybe more than she loves you. The rational side of you wishes it weren't true, but it is. You can feel it, and despite the pain it causes, you continue to breathe and live and drink her in like she's a fine wine and you are but a humble sommelier. She is a rarity, a shooting star, a lucky clover. She is your hope and reason to live all rolled up into a blonde-haired, blue-eyed package of artistic brilliance, sarcasm, wit, and stubborn determination. She is special. She is yours and you are hers. No matter what happens, your heart and your mind and your body will always belong to Clarke. 

(And that, you know as you stare at your sister and then at your missing limb with a solemn gaze, will be the _real_ cause of your death.)

 

**08/15/2008**

**22:21:07**

 

The days are getting harder.

You find yourself trapped in your bed, staring at the ceiling far too often for your liking. You go to physiotherapy for your other leg, and your doctors teach you how to still be mobile when you only have one limb. Clarke hovers around you, careful not to crowd but ever so protective. She feeds you, dresses you, helps you bathe, and you love her but you also hate how you've gone from the national hero (as they'd claimed you to be on the news) to a vegetable. Some days, you'll be sitting in the living room and you just stare at the lump on the end, wondering how you can feel it but not see it at the same time. Now that you've been honourably discharged, you have so much time on your hands. And you know what happens when you have too much time.

You think. Ruminate. Grieve.

It's a mess, but so are you.

Anya's made the position of chief, seeing as Kane has stepped down so he can retire peacefully. She no longer jumps into the blaze, but you were there during her promotion. You'd given her the best smile you'd managed to cook up, just enough so that she knew that you support her, but not enough to remind her that the position of chief was meant for you, first. It's not that Anya doesn't know, she does, but that Anya hates her job because it was never meant to be her own.

"I miss you," she'll tell you somedays when you're stargazing together, like when you were kids, "the crew misses you."

You won't say it, but you miss them too.

Come to think of it, you don't really say _anything_ these days.

Aside from yes or no questions, most of your answers are done non-verbally. A small nod or a tilt of a brow is your method of communication. Even with Clarke, words are minimal, so minimal that you question whether you lack the ability to speak completely. Clarke does her best to be happy, to cheer you up, but you don't sleep at night, plagued by memories and nightmares and all things terrifying (coupled with the smell of ash and the heat of a blaze). Instead, you listen with a heavy heart as (when Clarke thinks you are resting) she cries beside you, praying to a God you know she doesn't believe in that you will recover.

But the true question is, what exactly are you recovering from?

Sure, you lost your leg and your job, but you are still alive. You are still engaged to the woman of your dreams, your best friend and soulmate, but why can't you just recover. You are a warrior, a veteran fighter from birth. You were born and bred to overcome obstacles. You cannot give up, not on yourself or Clarke.

And so when she comes home, tired from taking a double shift at the museum, you offer her the smallest of smiles and tell her, "I love you."

She tries to hide it, but you watch her cry, not from sadness but from joy, because is the first time you've said the words since coming home.

And perhaps then, you wonder, you've lost your leg, but not your life, not your will to live, not your love.

Not Clarke.

(Not yet.)

That night, you watch her sleeping soundly beside you, her chest rising and falling so steadily, that you curse yourself for being so damned stupid all these weeks. You watch the faint crinkling of her nose as she whimpers in her sleep, inching closer towards you. It's then, as you listen to the soft snores parting her lips and her twitching brows, that even strong protectors like your fiancée have their weakness, too. She is a fortress, massive and fortified, but she has her vulnerable parts, the chinks in her bricks that let you see through to the unbridled sentiments she harbours for the world and for you.

Clarke is a beautiful, rare, piece of good in your life full of bad.

And so with a strain of your arms and a deep breath, you reach out and wrap her up so her head is against your chest. You bite back bittersweet tears as you watch her stiff frame relax as soon as it comes in proximity to your body. You shield her in your long, muscled arms. Your fingers dote on every scar that maps her shoulders and back from your times spent adventuring and exploring. You breathe in the scent of lavender and mild spice, of acrylic paint and dust, and nothing smells more like home. You hold her tighter, murmuring promises of being better, of working harder, of supporting her, too.

As you fall asleep that night, finally unperturbed by night terrors, you realize that you should count yourself lucky because, through it all, Clarke is there, holding you up and not letting you fall. Clarke is there, in her worn-out armour and broken-down chain mail to prop you up, dress your wounds, and fight beside you. Clarke is the Wonder Woman to your Superman, the glue to your paper, the peanut butter to your jelly, the everything to your nothing. She is the reason why you smile, you laugh, you find reasons to stay instead of go. Clarke is the reason that you are where you are today, living life as a hero to your country and your family. 

You can deal with losing a leg and losing your job, but you could never lose Clarke.

Not when Clarke is your strength.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per usual, find me @ a-class-act-president on tumblr. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Much love, xx.


	3. The Start of Something New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I discovered the bleeding when he licked my hand and left a swath of blood behind: death's autograph.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those of you that are sticking through with this sob story. It means the world.
> 
> The quote in the chapter summary is from Augusten Burrough's book, "A Wolf at the Table."

**14/07/1983**

**14:10:10**

 

You first experience abandonment in the face of a harsh winter breeze and tear-stained cheeks.

"Your name," the woman at the counter asks, scribbling something down on her clipboard.

"L-Lexa," you choke out as you shiver, voice hoarse from calling out for your parents. "Lexa Woods."

"Age?"

"Four."

"Date of Birth?"

"Um," you fumble as you continue to tremble, "I can't really remember."

The woman snorts something before continuing to write more information, most of which you don't understand what is necessary. You're going to be picked up soon, you know it. Your mother and father wouldn't leave you like this, not in this weather, not especially after they played with you on that swing.

"Lexa?" The woman grunts as she points over to a cubicle with the word 'commissioner' scrabbled over it. "Head over there."

"O-Okay," you choke out as you stumble in the direction she points towards. You squeeze into one of the seats in the office and wait with your hands folded in your lap. Each minute that ticks by feels more like an hour and it leaves an gnawing ache in the pit of your belly. Where are your parents? They should be back.

"Ms Woods?" A soft, gentle hum of a man's voice sounds from behind you. However nicely it was presented, it still startles you.

"Y-Yes?" You stammer as a tall, brown-haired man with clear hazel eyes walks into the room with a kind smile on his face. You feel at ease in his presence.

"My name is Commissioner Griffin," he introduces himself with a slow nod, taking a seat in front of you so you're eye-level. "You can call me Jake, though."

"Hi," you say, your voice small as you look around. "Where's my mommy and daddy?"

The smile slowly slides off his face and he takes a breath, shaking his head sadly. He takes a breath before he leans in and steadies himself.

"Lexa," he tells you softly, "I'm afraid that we can't find your parents."

"Why?" You ask, your eyes welling up with tears. "Where did they go?"

"They're…," he stumbles as he struggles to find the right words. He sighs, seemingly unable to fabricate a response. He just clears his throat and offers you a pitiful glance, one that makes the churning in your stomach amplify and flip with each second that passes. Your lip quivers as he finally parts his mouth.

"They're… gone."

(And you'll never see them again, he doesn't add, not until they're dead.)

 

**30/11/1986**

**09:30:05**

 

During your first years in the orphanage, you meet a little girl with brown hair and green eyes.

Tris, she calls herself, and she's five and a half years old.

You, being one of the eldest children at the place, take it upon yourself to dote on her as if she were your own sister. 

( _We're a family of orphans,_ you'd once told her when she'd climbed into your bed after a nightmare, crying and sniffling. _We stick together now._ )

Tris is always at your side, and soon you end up turning your one-man show into a dynamic duo. The two of you are practically joined at the hip, and you love it. Tris gives you a sense of purpose, and you give her a sense of reason. You keep her strong and grounded, and she keeps you afloat during the dark days. She makes the world feel a bit lighter, a bit more welcoming. She is quiet and timid, but her eyes contain a hurricane of power and strength. She's amazing.

Tris makes you feel less alone.

(Until the day she leaves, too.)

 

**18/07/1989**

**23:25:00**

 

You are deep asleep when the smell of acrid smoke filters into your small lungs.

All around you, the boys and girls in the orphanage are screaming, but your ears are only honed in on one particular cry.

Tris.

The flames are a bright red, redder than the fireworks on Independence Day, than the spark of the sun from the documentaries you'd watch with your sister. They burn hot and fast, sweeping up what few belongings you'd since living in the dreary place. There are firefighters running around the place trying to find and collect the children, so they may be moved in a safer area. You don't listen to them as they go to grab you, because all you think about is how you can't lose someone else, not again, not yet, not while you've just begun to heal and piece together the broken parts of your heart.

"Help!" You scream against the thick smoke, coughing as you stumble to the floor. "Please! Help!"

The shrieking of burning metal answers back, and you feel the floorboards shift from underneath your feet. You struggle to move forward, to keep under the cloudy haze like you'd seen in all those survival movies. You trudge forwards, your knees scraping against splinters in the wood. You cry out in agony, just wanting it to stop, but the world has never dealt you respite from darkness. You should know better by now that you are not one of the lucky ones.

And, so it seems, neither is Tris.

"Lexa!" You hear her screaming from somewhere in the distance. "Lexa, help!"

You cough and you swivel your body in the direction that the sound of your little sister's voice comes from. You slide on your belly towards the source, until you make out a pale hand scrabbling at the wooden floors. Letting out a yelp to rally you forward, you crawl forward until you find Tris.

Only, she's trapped under a banister and you're not strong enough to lift her.

"Please," she gasps between coughs. The smoke is thicker now, building a fort inside your lungs. "Please, Lexa, help me."

You try to yank on the plank that has her trapped, but your own body is frail and weak. You struggle against the obstructing blur of tears against your eyes as you manically try to pull to no avail. Tris whimpers and you decide that if you cannot help her, you will not leave her.

(The world takes, despite everything you give it.)

You hold her hand until you both fall unconscious to the smoke, just hoping you'll make it through.

Only one of you does.

 

**10/07/1989**

**04:15:50**

 

You have always hated hospitals.

You're scared, alone, and have lost everything.

(You know hospitals are notorious for something.)

You wake up in a white-walled room, surrounded by the lulling noise of a steady beep and some static rumbling. The smell of bleach and antiseptic is strong in your nose, and you can't help but scrunch your brows up and whimper at the scent. You want to gag, but there's a mask over your mouth.

"Ah good," a soft, maternal voice sounds from somewhere in the corner. "You're awake."

You swivel your head to see a woman with brown hair and dark eyes smile over at you. She has a white lab coat on with the name 'Abby Griffin, MD' written on her tags. You scrunch up your brows, trying to figure out where you've seen that name before. The woman walks over to your side and slowly lifts your mask.

"Can you tell me your name, sweetheart?" She asks softly, writing something on her clipboard. You swallow thickly and part your mouth.

"L-Lexa," you croak, voice sore from lack of use, "L-Lexa W-Woods."

"Good girl," she appraises you with a smile, "my name is Dr Griffin, but you can call me Abby. Okay?"

Speaking hurts, and you nod. Abby does not seem to mind.

"Alright Lexa, you've got a bit of damage in your lungs from the smoke, but we should be able to clear it out with some medicine. We're going to keep you here for a few nights until we're absolutely sure you're one hundred percent better, alright?" Abby rattles off gently, looking up to make sure that you've registered her words. You nod again, tears burning in your eyes. You grit your teeth and swallow harshly, trying to be brave as you realize that you are going to be alone.

Again.

"T-Tris," you choke, suddenly remembering your little sister. "W-Where…"

At this, Abby's smile very nearly falls off her face. 

"Oh honey," she coos softly, taking a seat beside you as she reaches out and grazes your forehead with her palm. "I'm sorry."

It's the same answer every time.

_I'm sorry._

_I'm sorry we couldn't find your parents._

_I'm sorry you're not wanted._

_I'm sorry you've lost everyone._

You're so sick of people being _sorry_.

Abby squeezes your hand and shoots you an empathetic look before she checks over your vitals and the machines beside you. The entire time, you are numb to your surroundings. You're busy staring at the ceiling, eyes glassy and scared. Your hands are shaking and your heart rate is accelerating so quickly you can barely hear how Abby mutters something about anxiety under her breath. You're convinced that she's going to leave you too, just like everyone else, once she's done.

Only Abby doesn't leave.

She takes a seat beside you and holds your hand. She nods at you when you glance over at her, your lip trembling.

You fall asleep, and when you wake up, she is still there.

 

**11/07/1989**

**10:25:09**

 

Abby has a daughter.

Clarke Griffin is everything you've ever wanted in a friend and not in the same time. She's bubbly and overly excited about everything, talks a little too loud, and has a really gentle laugh. She's got hair as radiant as the sun and eyes as deep as the sea. You've come to realize that Clarke Griffin is the very definition of beautiful. She has her mother's spirt and her father's gentleness, and is a perfect blend of the both of them. You envy her for a few moments, when she visits.

She has a family. She is happy.

You have no one and you're not happy.

But when you look at Clarke waving over to you with a gape-toothed smile and bright eyes, you can't help that maybe one day you _could_ be.

"Hi," she says as she takes a seat at your bedside, legs swinging as she continues to grin at you. "I'm Clarke. I'm seven."

"Lexa," you whisper softly. "I'm nine."

Clarke's smile grows impossibly wider and she immediately starts talking to you about how she loves space and her favourite colour is green. She offers you half of her gummy bears without even hesitating. Abby watches her from the door, and then nods to you with a softer smile. Suddenly, the loneliness of the four white walls and the smell of death doesn't seem so heavy. Instead, you find yourself looking over to where Clarke is still holding out her gummy worms. You look at her and you realize that no one's ever looked at you quite like _that_.

Turns out, that's all it takes for her to become your best friend.

 

**17/07/1989**

**18:55:09**

 

"How're my girls doing?" Jake's booming voice calls out from the other end of the room. You snap your head up from your book to see the commissioner walk in with two paper bags and a grin on his face. Clarke practically leaps from her seat beside you and runs over to him, wrapping her hands around his waist and grinning into his shirt. Your heart pangs, but not with remorse or jealously. You feel a spark in your heart because Clarke is so happy, and her happiness is a blessing. It seeps through your pores and weeds out the poison of negativity and self-loathing that actively resides within your small frame.

"Hey sweetheart," Jake grins as he hands her a paper bag and then walks over to your side, "and hello my other sweetheart. How are you?"

"Good," you say as you gingerly take the bag, still with some hesitance. "Thank you for dinner." Jake only nods, smiling harder.

You reach inside and beam at the sight of your favourite: peanut butter and jelly with no crusts.

"I heard through a little bird that someone is getting released today," Jake says to her in a sing-song voice as he plops down in the seat beside your bed. You nod and smile, taking a small bite of your sandwich and savouring the sweet taste of blackberry jam and smooth peanut butter. You swallow after a few bites.

And then it hits you.

You're getting released.

Suddenly, the sandwich doesn't taste so great anymore.

Getting released means you're going to be leaving the hospital. You're going to be leaving Clarke. You're going to be leaving Abby and Jake. You're going to leave the nurse that always sneaks you a cookie from the cafeteria. You're going to be released, and everything that's ever made you happy will be gone again.

"Why the long face, Lexa?" Clarke chirps as she loudly chews on her sandwich, not bothering to eat with her mouth closed. You try to smile, but it falters.

You glance over at Jake then, trying to be brave as you croak out, "where will I go?"

Clarke stops chewing.

Jake stops smiling.

Your heart stops beating.

"Well," Jake says with a soft sigh, "we had an idea. We weren't sure if you'd be up to it."

"What is it, Dad?" Clarke asks, putting her sandwich down to put herself into a serious mode. "We can't let Lexa leave. I love her."

You can't help blushing a little when she says that. You choke on a cough to divert Jake's arching brow.

"That's the thing," Jake says as he smiles again, nodding to you. "We were thinking, Abby and I, that maybe you could live with us? We got a fostering license a few days ago, so it'll be temporary. It's enough for you to decide if living with us is something you'd like to do, or if you'd like to wait for someone else."

Honestly, you stopped listening after live with us.

Finally, you hear your heart scream out in joy, someone wants you.

"Yes!" Clarke answers before you can, leaping up and crawling over your bed to hug her father. She grins at you from his arms, excitement in her blue eyes. "Lexa, you have to come! You and I could go to school together and sleep in the same room and we could play--oh and you will get to meet Wells and Raven!" Clarke's red by the end of her exclamation, grinning from ear to ear as she struggles to catch her breath. You can't help but giggle at her innocence.

"Well?" Jake asks as he looks over to you with a wistful gaze. "What do you say, kid? Wanna join the House of Griffin?"

You don't even hesitate before you nod. Clarke nearly flings herself at you, babbling about how excited she is.

You're crying into her shoulder, feeling overjoyed for the first time in so long. You smile, and the weight doesn't hurt.

You miss Tris, and you wish that you could have tried harder to save her.

You miss your parents, and you wish that they could have tried harder to find you.

You miss a lot of things. But, as you look to Abby walking into the room to beam at Jake and her daughter, and then you, it hits you square in the chest.

Despite all that you miss, you don't want to miss _this_.


End file.
